Purple Secret
by Vaysh11
Summary: "Did I care that he was a vampire? Not in the least. I was curious; I had never slept with a vampire before. All those fabled sensual pleasures – the thrill of the bite, the erotic sucking of the neck (and I imagined, other body parts) – I was going to experience them. It helped that I have a thing for blood. It helped that he has a delicious arse."


**Purple Secret**

* * *

It was not a sight Harry Potter had ever expected to see, three o'clock at night on Shaftesbury Avenue: Draco Malfoy, in front of a Muggle takeaway, digging into a greasy steak. But it was him, no doubt about it, despite the jeans and the leather jacket that looked too expensive for a Tuesday night out in Soho. There was the hair, of course, still bright platinum blond, unnaturally so, with not a trace of grey that Harry could detect. Malfoy's chin was covered in red, which had to be ketchup smears but looked like blood in the garish light.

Something about the man made Harry drop back into the shadows. It had been weeks since he'd last seen Malfoy. A hearing before the Wizengamot, with Malfoy representing the accused. Harry had testified for the DMLE. Nobody denied that Dark artefacts had been found in Travers Mansion. But Harry was tired of being part of sending senile old men and women to Azkaban. They had worked out a compromise that allowed Basil Travers to spend the rest of his life at home, and got the Department of Mysteries priceless artefacts to study mind control. In return, Unspeakable Croaker from DepMyst had promised Harry a new kind of Veritaserum that nobody could resist, no matter their skill at Occlumency.

Malfoy's steak looked half-raw from where Harry was standing. Pink inside, dripping juice the colour of thin wine. Malfoy was eating fast. And now Harry realised what felt odd about the scene, apart from the obvious (Draco _Malfoy_ eating Muggle takeaway in the middle of the night): Malfoy did not seem to enjoy his meal. His left hand would move to his stomach, rubbing it, from what Harry could tell, as if he was too full or feeling nauseous. Once, Malfoy gagged on a bite of steak that was dripping with the watery sauce. When he stopped coughing, Malfoy eyed the left-over piece of meat with an expression that Harry could only describe as disgust. But Malfoy did finish the steak, fast, methodically, using no cutlery but his hands.

A light went on behind the entrance where Harry stood, and muffled steps were coming down the stairs inside. Harry moved closer to the takeaway, edging towards the darkened window of a night-club next to it. A woman came out of the house, the collar of her coat upturned and a mobile phone at her ear. When she passed Malfoy she nodded to him.

It was a casual nod, a nod for a stranger in the street that you've seen often enough to recognise. Harry doubted a civilian would have noticed but these were details an Auror would pick up. And Harry had been with the Aurors for over twenty years. Noticing such things was second nature to him. Hermione kept telling him to read more books, and read less into people. But despite what rumours Skeeter and her ilk kept spouting, Harry had not become Head Auror because he had been lucky as a boy of seventeen. He'd lay his odds on Malfoy eating here at least three times a week.

Malfoy was focused on finishing off his steak. If he had seen the woman nodding at him, he did not show it. He certainly had not returned her nod. From the dark spot in front of the nightclub, Harry had an even better view of Malfoy. Still slender, he couldn't help noticing (_second nature_), still pointy around the chin. Sharp nose, very thin lips. Malfoy wasn't a looker, not in a conventional sense. Middle age had not mellowed him nor given him the distinguished air it had brought Neville. Or Ron, for that matter, who was the finest strategist the DMLE ever had. No, there was still a nervous energy to Malfoy, an energy Harry recognised from long ago, back at Hogwarts. It was there in the small bites, in the way Malfoy wiped his fingers quickly on the paper napkin. Predatory, Harry could not help but think. Malfoy had a reputation in the gay clubs of Knockturn Alley. Harry had heard he liked them young and willing. Not that Malfoy's sexual proclivities were of any interest to Harry.

Malfoy threw the crumpled napkin on the paper plate and pushed it away. His left hand went back to his stomach. For the first time he looked up from the round bar table, straight at Harry. It was the perfect opportunity to reveal himself, greet Malfoy with a snarky remark on the coincidence of them meeting here, of all places. But in the split second left to him, Harry decided against it and shrunk back towards the window. Malfoy might have seen him anyway, but Harry didn't think so.

Now Malfoy's right hand also moved towards his stomach. For a moment he pressed both palms to his shirt, winced and turned towards Shaftesbury Avenue. Night-time traffic was slow but steady. Perhaps Malfoy had eaten too much too fast. Perhaps Killnick &amp; Partner had him working long hours, and he had not had a meal all day. Which, Harry admitted to himself, was a ridiculous thought. Killnick &amp; Partner was the most prestigious solicitor's office in magical Britain. They would make sure their prized lawyer had elf-made food delivered if he was working into the small hours of the night. The _partner_ was Malfoy himself. But even more than twenty years after the war, Malfoy was not a name you could use to advertise a business.

Malfoy stood on the pavement and stared out into the street. Coloured lights were flickering across the asphalt. It was a mild night for October. The N5 night bus stopped a hundred yards away at the bus-stop, and Malfoy made to walk in that direction, towards where Harry stood. Draco Malfoy eating Muggle take-away was one thing, but Draco Malfoy taking a Muggle bus was something else altogether. Harry stared, and if Malfoy had really proceeded towards the bus-stop, he would have discovered Harry for sure. But Malfoy stopped, turned again, seemed unsure of where to go. He brought his right hand to his mouth and licked across the fingertips, while he was looking back and forth on the pavement.

An unconscious gesture, it had to be. Neither Malfoy Harry knew from Hogwarts nor the Malfoy he knew from the Wizengamot would have been caught dead being seen in public licking his fingers. He seemed to enjoy it, certainly more than the steak he'd eaten. Perhaps there was still sauce on his fingers. It was the only explanation Harry could think of. It made him uncomfortable – the licking and the satisfaction Malfoy seemed to derive from it. It was perhaps the weirdest moment of this weird encounter with Malfoy in the night.

Finally Malfoy made up his mind and turned back towards the takeaway. He passed it and walked on towards Charing Cross. With every step he seemed to become more assured of where he was going. From an open restaurant door orange light fell on him. His hair looked as if it was on fire. Harry blinked, and Malfoy was gone.

_Apparated._ Right in the middle of Muggle London. Harry chuckled as he stepped out of the shadows. The woman in the dark coat came back. She was still talking on the phone. When she entered the house, she gave him a strange look. She had to be wondering why a guy dressed for the clubs was hanging out alone on Shaftesbury Avenue.

Only Harry wasn't interested in the gay clubs of Old Compton Street. That was, he might be, but not tonight. It was time he got home, back to Grimmauld Place. Harry shook his wand from his sleeve; it slid smoothly into his hand. A small Italian woman was taking away Malfoy's plate and napkin. At the bus-stop, a young man was studying the departure times. Nobody was looking in Harry's direction. He focused and imagined the Black library, the diamond pattern of the wooden floor, the scent of ash and smoke that always lingered in the air, even in summer. Harry took a small step –_determination, deliberation_ – and was gone.

\- x -

I grant him this: he never denied what he was. From that first fateful moment when I sensed his gaze, I knew he was a vampire. His fangs gleamed in the dim light of the club; his old-fashioned clothing was suitably sinister. He is a dark-haired man, with skin paler even than my own. He looks young, barely twenty, but he told me when we first met that he had lived through both Great Wars.

"I've lived through a war," I said and chuckled, because now I can laugh them off, those frightful years of my youth. At the ripe age of forty-one, those days seem truly done and over.

Looking back at the events I am about to recount, I can see how naive I was on that first night. Jonathan Ruthven is old, one of the ancient of the undead. He was part of the negotiations of the Statute of Secrecy. He watched the Magna Carta being signed. He defended the monastery of Lindisfarne from marauding Vikings. Had I known all this, I may have felt honoured by his attention. As it was, I was pleased such a young-looking man sought me out in a crowd of much younger men.

Did I care that Jonathan was a vampire? Not in the least. I was curious; I had never slept with a vampire before. All those fabled sensual pleasures – the thrill of the bite, the erotic sucking of the neck (and I imagined, other body parts) – I was going to experience them. It helped that I have a thing for blood. It helped that Jonathan has a delicious arse.

We never made it to my suite at Claridge's, that first night. I let him suck me off in the loo. He's a pretty sight down on his knees, full pink lips smeared with come. I did not let him bite me then, although he wanted to, badly. That came later.

\- x -

The Head Auror never patrolled Diagon Alley, not in the week before Christmas, the busiest time of the year for wizarding businesses in Britain. It was sheer coincidence Harry had come with Lily and Albus to stare some more at the new Firebolt Absolute that had just been issued by Spudmore &amp; Co.

It got dark early so close to the solstice, and three strategically placed _Lumos_ lit up the show window of Quality Quidditch Supplies. The polished ebony broom handle sparkled as if sprinkled with fairy dust. The footrests were cast from brushed goblin-enchanted iron, as were the bands that held the twigs together – Spudmore had gone with hazel for his latest model. Still going for speed rather than safety. Secretly Harry approved of the choice.

Lily's nose was pressed so closely against the window that her breath formed a circle of mist on the glass. She had grown so much during the summer that she was now almost as tall as Albus.

"I want one," she whispered with something like awe in her voice. Best Beater in the Gryffindor team. His little girl.

Albus stood back a bit so he could take in the full length of the Firebolt. He glanced quickly at Harry when Lily uttered her wish. Harry could practically hear the wheels turning in Albus' head. He was fifteen; he knew what it meant that there was no price tag displayed beside the broom. Harry was a very rich man but money was never spent carelessly in the Potter household. Lily had no real understanding yet of what a sum like 1000 Galleons could buy. But Albus knew if there were any new brooms bought this Christmas, not both Quidditch players in the family would get the Firebolt Absolute.

"I swear they do it on purpose," a deep voice said beside Harry.

Harry looked up quickly to see the shape of a man behind him reflected in the window. Malfoy, he realised when he took in the pointy chin and the tight, thin-lipped mouth. Malfoy's blond hair was hidden beneath one of those Russian-style felt hats he seemed to favour.

"Release the new model brooms just before Yule, I mean."

Malfoy was standing so close that Harry felt the damp warmth of his cloak. A scent like cinnamon invaded the cold air, and there Harry could have sworn that Malfoy would never use such a spicy, warm perfume. He forced himself to concentrate on where Malfoy had appeared from so suddenly. Nobody sneaked up on the Head Auror like this.

It was something they taught in Auror training, backtracking memory to retrieve unconscious sensory impressions that one paid no attention to in the moment when they registered in the brain. Malfoy stood to Harry's left in the reflection; he had come from the right then, most likely from another store. Harry turned his head slightly, letting a smile play on his lips, a casual greeting for Malfoy. Quality Quidditch Supplies was on the North Side. Beside it was the Post Office and … ah, the Apothecary one building down. That's where Malfoy must have come from.

"Does Scorpius want one, too?" Harry asked amiably, one parent talking to another.

"I bought it directly from Spudmore a couple of weeks ago. When it was not for sale in the stores yet." Malfoy nodded to Albus who pretended to be wholly transfixed by the Firebolt. But he had moved closer and was obviously listening in on the conversation. "Albus here certainly has seen Scorpius fly it at Hogwarts."

Albus winced when he heard his name. He glanced over quickly to Harry who shrugged. Malfoy was such a git.

"Er, hello, Mr Malfoy. I've seen Scorpius' new broom." Albus spoke very quietly, looking at his shoes. "Slytherin, um, they flattened Hufflepuff in the last game."

Harry wanted to roll his eyes. Usually, he didn't mind Malfoy so much, despite his conservative politics and the little lawyer games. During the last years, the two of them had settled into polite co-existence. Killnick &amp; Partner were in the DMLE practically on a daily basis, and Malfoy was often their representative for meetings with the Head of the Auror Department. It was all very civilised.

But moments like this, Harry almost missed the bad old days. And judging by the smirk on Malfoy's face, he still enjoyed having Slytherin come out on top, owed to a cutting-edge broom bought by the Seeker's filthy rich father.

A group of boisterous shoppers stumbled out of the Leaky. The streetlights sparked to life, one by one, until Diagon Alley seemed lit by two garlands of golden fairy lights. The smell of roast chestnuts and baked apples wafted over to them. Harry leaned back towards Malfoy, to make their conversation easier in the sudden din. But Malfoy stepped away from Harry. Maybe he was edged off by the throng, or he simply wanted more distance now that they had done their bit of polite talk. Harry's right side felt oddly cold, with Malfoy so suddenly gone.

"Dad!" Albus' voice close-by was tense.

Harry looked around and saw Lily with a few other kids still in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies. The shoppers moved on and cleared the street. A few steps to the right, Harry detected Albus' shock of messy black hair. He was crouched on the street, and Harry moved towards the spot as quickly as he could. Malfoy was lying on the cobbled pavement beside Albus, curled in on himself and clutching his stomach. His blond hair was so bright in the fairy lights.

Harry did what Aurors were trained to do: breathe in, assess the situation, secure the area, breathe out. Albus was pale but calm; in his hands he held the felt hat that must have rolled off when Malfoy collapsed. A few passers-by had noted what was happening but they stood back and were content to watch.

Malfoy was breathing fast; his face was a mask of pain. Vomit was smeared across his cheek, it dribbled down his chin and onto the cobbled stones. He was muttering to himself, a charm, perhaps, but Harry could not hear clearly what he said. Harry had all but forgotten the odd encounter on Shaftesbury Avenue but now he remembered: the ketchup smears, Malfoy's hand rubbing his stomach after his meal.

Harry knelt on the ground. Immediately, the knees of his trousers were soaked with slush.

"Malfoy." Harry tried to slip a hand underneath Malfoy's head, to turn him to the side.

But Malfoy jerked away, moaned and got on his hands and knees. Harry put a hand on his back, stroking him like one would a wounded animal. Malfoy let him. His body was shaking. One of his buttoned leather gloves had opened, and raw blistered skin was visible at his wrist.

Again, he muttered something Harry did not catch.

"What?" He leaned closer.

"So hungry," Malfoy whispered, but that couldn't be right.

And yet, when Harry leaned even closer, to check whether Malfoy had been hurt by a spell or weapon, he said it again.

"So hungry. How can..." Malfoy was breathing hard, staring at the wet stones.

Harry moved the hair back that had fallen into Malfoy's face. He half expected Malfoy to jerk away again but instead he raised his head. The fairy lights reflected in his eyes; they were focusing in on Harry.

"Is it safe for you to Apparate?" Harry asked. "I can take you to St. Mungo's." Malfoy's hair was soft like silk.

Malfoy shook his head. "Jus' le' me be, Potter" he finally managed, his words still slurred with pain. "It'll pass in a minute or so."

Harry felt more than saw the presence of another wizard move closer. He looked up but did not recognise the brown-haired man who was clutching a package from Flourish &amp; Blotts. Perhaps he was a friend of Malfoy's and knew what was wrong with him. "Could you –"

"Slimy Death Eater filth," the man hissed, too low for the crowd to hear but loud enough for Harry and Malfoy to understand. "You can croak here on the street for all I care."

Malfoy inhaled sharply; he tensed up in a way that Harry knew had nothing to do with the pain.

_Bloody idiots._ Harry moved sideways, so his body was between the man and Malfoy. Albus stepped closer, too, towards the man. Lily had joined him; she didn't take her eyes off Malfoy. Harry ordered Albus with a look and nod to stay back. He could tell Albus was not happy but he did as told. Beside him on the street lay a satchel, barely visible against the grey stones. But Harry knew these satchels. The Apothecary wrapped up potion phials in them, as a protection against breakage. Malfoy must have lost it when he fell. Albus had seen it, too. He quickly picked it up and slipped it into Malfoy's hat.

Malfoy grunted as he placed first his right, then his left foot on the ground. Harry slid one arm around his waist to steady him, and Malfoy allowed it. Which was a good thing, for he was swaying back and forth. He had one hand clutched to his stomach, with the other he held onto Harry's shoulder.

They were so close Harry could feel how cold Malfoy was, how his body was shivering. He barely held himself upright.

"Do you want me to take you to St. Mungo's?"

Malfoy leaned hard against Harry, and his mouth was very close to Harry's ear. "Just to the Leaky Cauldron. Help me over. I'll be all right."

It was maybe fifty steps to the Leaky, and Harry knew he should just get Malfoy there and let him be. But he couldn't.

"You just collapsed in the street. You are still in pain, I can tell. Let me Side-Along you to St Mungo's." Harry felt a spike of anger shoot through Malfoy's body, and he tightened his arm to keep him close. "I promise you there will be no insults. You get proper treatment like everybody else."

The record of St Mungo's treatment of ex-Death Eaters had not exactly been stellar after the war. Many of the old families had never regained their trust in the Healers.

"I _am_ properly treated, if you must know."

Malfoy's voice was too weak to carry the crystal-sharp disdain Harry knew from the Wizengamot and the DMLE. But it was there. And underneath – exhaustion. Shame.

"All right," Harry said. "The Leaky, then."

"Get going, Potter."

They started to walk towards the Leaky's entrance. The crowd followed them for a few moments but soon they dispersed. Luckily, everybody had Christmas shopping to do. The brown-haired man, for all that Harry could see, was gone. Albus and Lily were following them, and when Harry turned to check on them, Lily waved at him.

Malfoy's head kept falling on Harry's shoulder, and after the third time, Harry pushed him down gently to say it was okay. Malfoy relaxed a bit after that, which made their awkward walking easier. His breath was warm against Harry's neck, coming fast.

When they reached the well-lit steps leading up to the door of the Leaky, Malfoy was panting. It had to be the exertion but Harry didn't think so. Malfoy was slumped against him; he had his face pressed into the nook between Harry's shoulder and neck. If the notion had not been absurd, Harry would have thought Malfoy was – _nuzzling_ him. The way Malfoy kept moving his lips against Harry's skin certainly felt like it.

"Malfoy?"

"Hmm."

"We're at the Leaky."

"Ah." He righted himself and moved away from Harry. A bit of colour had returned to his face, and he stood overly erect as if standing was an effort but no longer impossible.

"What illness is this?" Harry knew it was the wrong thing to ask the second the words left his mouth.

"Stomach ulcers," Malfoy replied, screwing up his face. "All those bloody cases you make me review after midnight, Potter."

The snark was back, and Harry couldn't help but feel relieved. But he knew a lie when he heard one. He held up his hands. "Not my business, I get it."

Malfoy was already halfway up the stairs. He turned around abruptly, looking down upon Harry with a haughty expression on his face. "Can I treat you to steak and beer, Potter?"

They had had lunch together before, so the invitation did not come wholly out of the blue. Harry almost said yes. The attack Malfoy had suffered was over but he still didn't quite look like himself. The skin around his mouth seemed swollen, and he clearly had to make a conscious effort to not put his hands to his stomach.

Lily behind him was laughing lightly. The kids. Harry needed to finish Christmas shopping; he had promised Ginny. And maybe he should just buy them both a Firebolt Absolute. It was not as if he had anything important planned with the gold hoarded in the Potter vault at Gringotts.

"I wish I could, Malfoy. But I need to..." Harry gestured towards Albus and Lily who were waiting in front of the cauldron shop on the other side of the street.

"Oh, of course." Malfoy's gaze swept quickly over Diagon Alley. "Another time, then. Thank you for your help. Merry Christmas, Potter." With that he opened the heavy door of the Leaky Cauldron and disappeared in a cloud of light and the smells of braising steak.

"Dad." Albus stood beside Harry. "Mr Malfoy's things." He held the felt hat in both hands like a bucket, filled with the satchel from the Apothecary.

On first impulse, Harry meant to tell Albus to run inside and return Malfoy his belongings. But on second thought, he picked up the satchel, loosened the string and peeked inside. The light from the Leaky shone a small green phial of dragon blood.

\- x -

Jonathan Ruthven did nothing to me that I had not allowed him to do. He used no Glamour to make me willing, he cast no _Confundus_ on me. While he had been a wizard once, his magic now is feeble, barely strong enough for cleaning charms. He loved it when I Side-Alonged him for Apparition; he couldn't get enough of seeing me _Accio_ the lube bottle. He was as good in bed as any of my lovers. The bite, though, was extraordinary.

We stayed at his place when I allowed it. He owns a townhouse at Swains Lane, one of the new Muggle buildings with big glass windows and spectacular, moonlit views over Highgate Cemetery. I loved to take him there, smashed against the wide panorama window, the night stretched out before us. His fangs were always exposed during sex; he would graze my neck with their sharp points when I fucked him. The need for blood and the need for cock were the same thing for him. To have him underneath me, willing and open, and yet his fangs a constant reminder of the predator in him – I would be lying if I said that I didn't enjoy the sight.

The vampire's bite, though… it's nothing like I ever experienced, not before and not after. We had been fucking for two weeks at this point, and I could tell Jonathan was getting desperate for my blood. Or for any human blood. I know now that while a vampire can survive on animal blood, it cannot sate the burning hunger. Only human blood does. Back then, I was ignorant of such things. It was all sex to me. Which is what Jonathan had made me believe our tryst was all about. That night, I had already come twice, once in his mouth, my cock sliding in and out between his fangs, and once buried deep in his arse. Jonathan could barely sustain an erection that night, he was so focused on the blood pulsing in the veins at my neck and my wrists. The crooked veins of my faded Dark Mark drove him crazy. He kept grazing his fangs over it again and again.

Big Ben struck midnight in the distance when I succumbed to him. I remember clearly a slant of moonlight falling on Jonathan's face. His pupils were black slits, his fangs bared to a point where his lips had disappeared. You'd never know from his slender body but Jonathan is stronger than Greyback in his prime (and _I_ know how strong Greyback was in his prime). He had me pinned against the headboard of the bed in two seconds flat. My head was snapped back, and the next moment he had his fangs buried in my neck. Pain sharp like diamond-edged knives one second, the next – gone. I remember feeling safe, peaceful, as peaceful as one can feel with a raging erection. I was wholly conscious, my senses on high alert. I saw, heard, smelled, felt everything – Jonathan's shape hovering over me in the darkness, the wet sucking sounds, his moans of pleasure, the all-pervading scent of fresh blood, coppery warm, and Jonathan's cold finger around my dick. He was too hungry at first to wank me. But once he established a rhythm between the sucking and the way he touched my cock it was the best sex I ever had.

I rarely submit in bed but this was the one time I gave myself wholly to another man. I couldn't help exposing more of my neck, I spread my legs even wider. I wanted Jonathan to suck harder, to empty me whole; I wanted him to crush my dick, to squeeze my balls. I wanted him to touch me everywhere. And once he had had his fill of my blood, he did. My skin, I remember, felt so incredibly tight and hot. But wherever he touched me layers seemed to simply peel away, he was opening me up. When I came it was like a hard bud bursting into flower in sudden, blinding sunlight.

I awoke alone the next morning. Highgate Cemetery lay before me, wrapped in the pale light of early autumn. Jonathan always left before day-rise and crawled into his coffin or to whatever dark lair he spends his days in. We never talked about such things. The side of my neck was tender, and when I reached to touch it, I felt cotton bandages. Jonathan had patched up the puncture wounds when I was asleep. On the nightstand stood a bottle of Blood-Replenishing Potion, with a note saying tea was ready in the kitchen. A red rose, ripped freshly from a bush, lay beside it. Jonathan had told me once he loved me.

There was nothing wrong with me that morning, apart from the tenderness at my neck and a faintly nauseous feeling that subsided once I had taken the potion. I've since studied all the books on vampires I could find in my father's library. Nowhere is a turning described that gentle. Vampire fledglings must be fed immediately with their sire's blood, they must sleep skin-close to their sire's body in a grave of unsanctified earth. In all of vampire literature, the turning is described as death, painful and terrifying – physically and mentally.

Nothing like this happened to me. The sun flooding the house at Swains Lane left my skin unharmed; I Apparated home to Wiltshire without a second thought. I slept in my four-posted bed that night, on sheets made from Egyptian cotton. The unbearable craving for blood, human or other, started only weeks later.

And yet, it must have happened during that night. I met Jonathan three, maybe four times after. We had sex but the spark was gone. Now that I had experienced the bite, much of the thrill of sleeping with a vampire was gone. Jonathan seemed to feel equally bored with me, now that he had had a taste of my blood. He started being late for our night-time dates. After he stood me up for the second time, I ended the affair. I never said I was a patient man.

\- x -

Dragon blood was expensive stuff. And while not a common ingredient for household potions, it _was_ a remedy for stomach ulcers. Still. Hermione had suffered from stomach ulcers a few years ago. A career in the Ministry seemed to do that to you. But she had not started eating bloody steaks and collapsing in streets. Hermione had switched from coffee to chamomile tea. After three months of treatment in St Mungo's she had been back on track to becoming the next Minister of Magic. Surely, whoever treated Malfoy could do the same for him. _If_ Malfoy was really seeing someone. Harry doubted it. Just a gut feeling but why would Malfoy buy dragon blood if he was treated at the Urquhart Rackharrow Infirmary or any of the other hospitals that catered to the old families?

Harry sighed. There was nothing he could do for Malfoy. Hell, they weren't even friends, so why would he even think about doing something for him. Malfoy hadn't asked for help and he certainly would not appreciate Harry's concern. And yet Harry could not forget the feeling of Malfoy's body heavy and shivering close to him. The sight of Malfoy's blistered red wrist came to him ever so often, at the most inopportune moments. And with the memory came the need to do something about it, make it better somehow. Harry was no fool. He knew quite well what it was he was feeling even if he had not yet allowed himself to put it into words. But yes, damn it: he was attracted to the pale, pointy, insufferable git. Harry's recent wank fantasies left no doubt as to the nature of the attraction. Soft blond hair and soft nuzzling kisses to Harry's neck featured heavily in them. He hadn't yet let himself go as far as moaning Malfoy's name when he'd come, but he had wanted to, badly.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. Harry carefully slipped the phial of dragon blood back into the satchel and put it into the felt hat. After two days, it was high time to return Malfoy his belongings.

"Captain Black!" Harry opened the window of the library.

His Great Horned Owl came swooping in from the Owlery up in the attic of number 12, Grimmauld Place. It was a temperamental beast but strong and very attached to Harry. He ruffled the black tufts of feathers on its head. Captain Black endured it but was eyeing the jar with owl treats.

Harry wrapped the felt hat in string and attached it to the big owl's talons. "Bring this to Draco Malfoy," he whispered into the owl's tufted ears. "I'm sure he's got some fancy owl treats for you."

If owls could roll their eyes, Captain Black would have rolled its ink-black eyes, Harry was sure of it. As it was, the Horned Owl cocked its head in a way that reminded Harry of nobody as much as Malfoy. It spread its wide wings, alighted and was out the window with a hoot and a flutter of feathers. Harry watched it soar in the grey wintry sky. It had been… _nice_ to have something of Malfoy in his home. It had felt as if there was some kind of connection between them. Harry quickly closed the window. Merlin, he was falling for the man like a school-boy, instant erections and all.

Time to go to work and deal with Head Auror business. The business of a responsible, forty-year old adult. Still, Harry couldn't help the warm giddy feeling in his stomach as he put on his Auror robes.

\- x -

Perhaps I should have seen the signs earlier. But I didn't. In the weeks following the night at Swains Lane when Jonathan turned me, I was busy, more busy than usual.

The Travers trial was coming up before the Wizengamot. Basil Travers is a die-hard Death Eater, with not a repentant bone in his bony frame. It didn't help his case that he hates Goblins and Russians almost as much as Muggle-borns. Killnick wanted to obtain a pardon because of old age. Travers is ninety-eight, no age for a wizard. Granted, the years in Azkaban have not been kind to him. Now, if I could have him spout his nonsense about 'the wandless usurping magical power' in front of the Wizengamot and use his own statement as proof of his senility, we would be going somewhere. But such a statement would put him right back into Azkaban.

Which is why I was in near-constant negotiations with the DMLE about how Dark the artefacts that the Aurors had found in Travers Mansion actually were. Potter was clearly tired of the whole thing and just wanted the trial to be over and done with. I am Travers' solicitor, I know that Potter questioned him personally because I was present at the interrogation. Potter knew Basil Travers was not some deluded pure-blood dotard. Still, I was certain I could get him and the DMLE to compromise, arrange for having Travers on house arrest in his mansion, arrange for the seized artefacts to be given to the Ministry. I had Mrs Travers and Saul Croaker from the Department of Mysteries working on Potter. Two weeks before the trial, the case at least didn't look hopeless anymore.

In what little time left to me, I was working on the potion. I don't have much of a social life. The Malfoy name will never again carry the prestige and glamour it once held in the wizarding world. I have resigned myself to the fact. It helps that Scorpius never cared for power or social standing. Slytherin House, he says, is all about 'the charm offensive'. I know it's only half a joke. There is nothing much left to us Slytherins but our charm. Sometime I wish Scorpius would have Sorted into Ravenclaw. It's certainly the house that seems to fit him best. And I cannot help but wonder whether he would have been happier in Ravenclaw.

Don't think I turned my back on Slytherin; I haven't. My fondest memories are about exploring the Hogwarts dungeons in those few years before the war truly started. I still have a fondness for silver and green, colours that do nothing for my complexion. It's all sentiment, I know, made of Pansy's carefree laughter, Blaise's hard kisses and cock, Gregory's dodged trust in me and… and Vince. Vince. He's always there.

My potion is an experiment. Others must have tried it; I cannot be the only one. I never wear clothes that leave my forearms exposed, and I never casually shove up my sleeves. In summer I wear fancy jewellery that keeps the Dark Mark covered, even when it makes me look more feminine that I care to look. I hate these crooked faded lines still covering my skin. I know I cannot remove the Dark Mark. But with this potion I can make it invisible. Call me a coward if you must, see whether I care.

Autumn passed. During the day I worked at the office or in the DMLE. The evenings I spent in my potions room in the Manor dungeons, adding sliced arnica root, ground dragon claws, drops of diluted mercury, Bundimun acids and what not into cauldrons. Beginning of November I tested the potion on my own forearm, and preliminary results were very encouraging. The Dark Mark was barely visible.

I did notice that the winter light seemed unusually bright this year. The potion had left the skin on my left forearm red and raw, as if scrubbed with a brass wire brush. Whenever I came back from a walk outside, fresh patches of skin peeled off. A side-effect of the potion, I thought at first. Then the skin on my right wrist started blistering, too. I began wearing gloves whenever I left the house.

In hindsight, I realise my diet changed drastically through October and November. I've always enjoyed my steak _saignant_, preferably with a fine glass of Château Haut Brion. But this new kind of ravenous craving for red meat was nothing like my healthy appetite for rump steak. It increased during the course of the day. I would wake up, hungering for sausages and bacon. By lunch time, I needed meat. Two generous helpings of the Leaky's black pudding became my favourite lunch. For dinner, I had the elves prepare my steak rare. When I didn't eat at home, I went into Muggle London to some takeaway place I had discovered that sold their steaks red and dripping with juices.

There were other days. Days when I awoke covered in sweat and weak with nausea. I vomited my guts out in the loo minutes before I held my speech in defense of Basil Travers in front of the Wizengamot. Those days, I barely touched any food.

Of course, I should have realised what was happening to me. Now I can see it clearly. But the thought that Jonathan's bite could have had anything to do with those weird cravings did not once cross my mind.

\- x -

Six days before Christmas, and Harry was on the fourth floor at St Mungo's. Ron was interviewing a young woman in Spell Damage, the victim of a serial perpetrator who had been attacking wizards and witches during the last weeks. The _Daily Prophet_ had not yet got wind of it but St Mungo's had a lot of staff and one was bound to spill the news soon. It was a rare enough occasion to have the Head Auror Floo into St Mungo's to question the victim of a crime. That information alone was worth plenty of Galleons to the _Prophet_. But this was the third case in as many weeks, and the Aurors were still without the slightest hint of a lead.

The woman was maybe twenty-five, and her dark brown hair was cut to a fashionable bob. She sat on the bed dressed in jeans and a red wool sweater. When Harry entered the room, her gaze flickered to his forehead, and recognition flashed across her face. Harry had made it a habit to cut his hair short so the lightning bold scar was always visible. In the long run it paid to be recognisable instantly. Get it out of the way and avoid awkward surprises and even more awkward misunderstandings. The younger generation was rarely awed by Harry. To them he was the Head Auror with a colourful past the details of which were best left to history books and Professor Binns' classes at Hogwarts. Harry could not be happier about it. He took in the pallor of the woman's face and winked at her for a greeting. She gave him a broad smile.

"Theresa Vance," Ron said and pointed with his chin towards Harry. "Harry Potter. He has a couple of questions for you, Theresa."

Theresa Vance had spent an evening with friends at Fortescue's who were serving gingerbread ice-cream and mulled wine in winter. She had left shortly after 11 pm. Feeling too drunk to Apparate, she had walked down Diagon Alley to the Leaky Cauldron to get home by Floo from there.

"There were still people on the street," Theresa said. She had moved to the edge of the bed, closer to Ron and Harry who sat in the visitors' chairs.

"Possible witnesses?" Ron scribbled something on the cheap parchment he used for case notes.

Theresa nodded. "I, um, I don't remember much after I walked down Diagon." She turned to Harry, her gaze almost apologetic. He quickly glanced at her neck but of course the cut was no longer visible. Theresa's brown skin looked soft and smooth. There was no sign that she had suffered a gaping wound not twelve hours ago, done with a precise Severing Charm. The attacker had left her lying unconscious, the wound unattended.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Harry asked. The other victims had not remembered the attack, either. Their Healers were certain whoever had slashed the side of their necks, had used a Memory Charm on them.

Theresa squinted into the sunlight streaming through the window. "The cauldron shop. I bought my uncle a copper cauldron for Christmas, and they had the same ones on sale in the shop. Four Galleons cheaper than what I paid." She shrugged with a small smile.

"Do you remember anyone close to you when you passed the cauldron shop?" Ron asked.

They had had no luck finding witnesses of the attacks. Which was strange, to say the least. Two of the attacks had happened in Diagon Alley, the other in Knockturn, all of them at night but always before midnight. The streets were full of people. It made no sense. In the Auror Department, rumours were spreading that the attacker owned an Invisibility Cloak. Harry rather suspected a cleverly cast Disillusionment Charm.

"There was… a family coming out of the Leaky. Two kids, a girl and a boy. They were from out of town." Theresa Vance had her eyes closed to be better able to remember. "And two older boys over at Quality Quidditch. A couple of people walked behind me, talking about the new Firebolt." She opened her eyes. "The Firebolt Absolute. Have you seen it?"

"I have." Ron leaned back in the chair. "It's a beauty."

"State of the art," Harry agreed. The new Firebolts for Albus and Lily sat wrapped in bright blue, star-strewn paper in an unused broom closet of Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

"I want one," Theresa said, and her enthusiasm was catching, just like Lily's.

"Seeker?" Harry asked. Something in Theresa's posture made him think she was fast and quick on a broom. It reminded of him Malfoy, too.

Theresa nodded. "Won the House Cup in my final year."

"And you were in… ?" Ron watched Theresa with what Harry called the recruitment look. Her answers had been more precise than what you usually got from civilians. And she was remarkably composed for having been attacked only last night.

"Slytherin." Defiance, pride, accusation, regret – a whole world of feeling lay in that one word. Theresa was no longer looking at them but had her face turned back to the window.

"Quite a few good Aurors are Slytherins." The feather of Ron's quill moved up and down, as if he was considering all the many Slytherins working in the Auror Department. _Quite a few_ was a blatant lie. Not five per cent of the Aurors came from Slytherin House, and even those had only been hired in the last three years.

Theresa, though, took Ron's remark for what it was, half apology, half encouragement to not let herself be deterred from applying with the DMLE. She grinned at him, and then looked at Harry. "I just remembered one more thing. It's probably nothing but someone in the group behind me was drinking hot chocolate. I didn't see it but I could smell the cinnamon."

Last night, Malfoy had eaten in the Leaky. Eleven o'clock fit perfectly. A feeling like ice lodged itself in Harry's throat.

\- x -

Things they don't tell you about being a vampire: your piss is purple.

My heart, which supposedly stopped beating in the dead hours of that night back at Swains Lane, is racing a hundred miles an hour. I can feel my whole body thrum with it.

I am getting sloppy, I know. Approaching Potter last night – the bloody Head Auror, of all people – when the hunger was turning my insides out. Stupid doesn't cover it. But I couldn't help it. The way he was standing there with the _Lumos_ from the store window lighting up his face – he must know how irresistible he is. On first glance, you would not think much of the small, lithe man. And then he turns slightly, and you see it: the sheer force behind his every move, the way he can command people as much as magic with one gesture alone. I stood behind him before I knew what I was doing.

The intervals are getting shorter. I need human blood at least once a week or I go crazy with pain. That's another thing the books don't tell you: how bad the hunger gets. The pain never really stops, not even with a belly full of warm human blood. Last night, I was starving. I tried fending off the inevitable with dragon blood. Sometimes it helps but not last night. I was clutching my stomach and vomiting in the middle of Diagon Alley not ten minutes after I gulped down a sip of dragon blood.

Being so close to Potter was torture. His hands are warm and strong. I wanted to sob against his chest and confess everything. I almost did when he made me rest my head against his shoulder. Then the hunger took over. Potter's skin became translucent in the streetlights. I could feel his dark blood pulsing underneath it; I swear I could smell its sweet scent. So close. I was getting hard, which had not happened with the others. My mouth was so swollen; it felt as if the fangs would finally break through.

Another thing no one tells you about: I have not yet grown fangs. Sometimes there is bleeding, and my gums feel hot and tight when the hunger is at its peak. But no sharp points are breaking through the flesh. It is lucky my magic has not yet been affected by the turning. A quick Body-Bind, a slashing _Diffindo_, and I drink and drink and drink. The blood settles my stomach, and the pain recedes. It's a glorious feeling. For a few hours, I can even sleep.

Today, Scorpius has come home for the holidays. I sent him a Portkey that brought him directly to the Manor Gate because I could not pick him at King's Cross Station. He is shocked at the drawn curtains everywhere. I spelled the windows to show always night outside; I cannot bear the daylight anymore.

"It's a sensitivity to light," I tell him. "I'm seeing a Healer. It's only until the potions take effect."

It's a thin lie, and I can tell my son sees right through it. He takes my gloved hands, unbuttons them and slips them off. The pain is excruciating but I steel myself and stifle a scream. I don't jerk away when he strokes the bloodied skin.

"Father…" Scorpius is kneeling in front of me; I am sitting in my favourite chair close to the fireplace. "Does Mother know about this?"

I shake my head because I don't trust myself to speak. Astoria lives in Italy with her new husband. She has build herself a new life, much as I have. The fire makes sparks light up in Scorpius' blond hair. He is a beautiful boy, so much more beautiful than I ever was. He does look a Malfoy but Astoria is everywhere – in the blue-grey of his eyes, the softness of his face, the cupid's bow of his upper lip. I want to kiss him. The vein at his neck is the colour of violets and pulsing rapidly. I want to slash it open and drink, drink forever. My stomach cramps, and I double over with the sudden pain.

"What is it? Father, what is wrong?" The alarm is clear in Scorpius' voice. But he doesn't go away, this trusting child of mine. I pull my hands out of his and press them against my stomach. It doesn't help the pain but it keeps me from falling apart.

"Go away," I croak as the hunger grips me.

Scorpius stays. He brings me water, potions, pillows, a blanket. I am violently sick, and Scorpius holds me through it. I am grateful and at the same time deeply ashamed. Around midnight the cramps let up. Scorpius is asleep before the fireplace. I clean myself up and reach for the jar of Floo powder on the mantelpiece.

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place," I pronounce as clearly as I manage with my swollen mouth. I hold on to Scorpius as the emerald flames engulf us.

\- x -

The wards of the fireplace in the Black Library were broken shortly after midnight. Harry was up instantly; he had been tossing and turning since he had gone to bed: Malfoy had been on his mind constantly since the interview with Theresa Vance. He had not told anybody yet of his suspicion, not even Ron. Before he made any accusations against Malfoy, he needed proof. The smell of cinnamon was not nearly enough. But Harry was convinced Malfoy was behind the odd attacks. What the fuck was he doing?

Albus and Lily had come home for the holidays. They were sleeping upstairs in Sirius and Regulus' old rooms. James was with Ginny at the Scandinavian Winter Quidditch Tournament. Harry walked quietly down the stairs. Soft voices were coming from the library, amidst the crackling of the fire. Only those who knew the address could enter Number 12 Grimmauld Place, and Harry was very protective of his privacy. This was his home, and Head Auror business had no place in it. Not even Robards, Harry's immediate boss at the DMLE, had the address.

Which is why Harry was wholly unprepared for the sight of Draco Malfoy and his son standing in front of his fireplace. He hadn't bothered to put on his night gown and slippers. When Malfoy looked over to him with fierce eyes, Harry instantly became aware of his naked upper body and bare feet. Then he saw that Scorpius was crying, and all embarrassment was gone.

"You have to take him," Malfoy said.

"Good evening to you, too, Malfoy." Harry walked through the library until he stood beside them. Malfoy was sweating, and he kept wiping a hand across his mouth. The hand was blistered with skin peeling off. It looked painful. Malfoy's gaze was moving down to Harry's chest. And lower, over his stomach, towards the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. Harry felt arousal stir in his groin.

"I'm sorry for barging in and waking you. But –" Malfoy swallowed and for a moment closed his eyes. "Can you take Scorpius for a few days? I'll pay all expenses, of course. Just – he can't stay in the Manor."

"I'm not leaving you alone." Scorpius' voice was muffled by tears.

"Please, Potter. Just for a few days."

The pain again. It was written all over Malfoy's face. He kept reaching for the mantelpiece as if he was afraid he'd fall.

"Let's all sit down, all right?" Harry gave Scorpius what he hoped was an encouraging smile but the boy had only eyes for his father. When Malfoy took a step away from the fireplace, Scorpius was at once at his side and helped him towards the leather couch that stood a few yards away. Scorpius sat down beside him, wiping away the last of the tears. The boy looked awfully tired. And determined. Malfoy rested his head on the back of the couch. He was panting.

Of course Scorpius could stay at Grimmauld Place, for however long it took Malfoy to recover from whatever illness he was afflicted with. Perhaps Harry could convince Malfoy now to let him take him to St Mungo's.

"Scorpius!" Albus was standing at the library's double door, eyes small with sleep and his dressing gown held together by a leather belt. "What are you doing here?" He quickly came towards them.

Malfoy pulled himself together with visible effort and sat up. Albus smiled at Scorpius, a broad grin so full of joy that Harry wondered briefly about how close the boys really were.

"Scorpius can sleep in my room," Albus said. It wasn't even a question, and somehow this settled it.

"Take fresh linen and a second duvet from the cupboard," Harry said. Malfoy's eyes were closed; he was clearly struggling to not let the pain overwhelm him in front of the boys.

"I'll get everything." Albus pulled Scorpius up from the couch, and Scorpius let him. But his eyes were on Harry.

"Will you help him, Mr Potter?"

Scorpius spoke so quietly Harry wasn't sure Malfoy had even heard. "I'll try." He could do better than that. "Yes, I'll help him."

Albus didn't leave Scorpius time to answer. He pulled him through the library, away from the fireplace and the adults, talking about tooth-brushes and that they would get Scorpius' presents Owled to Grimmauld Place so they could celebrate Christmas together.

"He likes to take charge, doesn't he?" Malfoy said.

Harry quickly turned around. Malfoy was standing close behind him, wand in hand. His eyes were overly bright, his gaze trained on Harry's neck. His erection was clearly outlined underneath the cloth of his trousers.

"You don't have to force me," Harry said quietly. "I'll give you what you want." Human blood. Malfoy did not look like a vampire. But he had attacked three people, cut their necks, presumably to drink their blood, and Obliviated them.

"I need it." Malfoy's voice was shaking, but his wand was not. "I need it."

Harry raised his arms to indicate he was unarmed. Slowly he leaned his head to one side. "You can take it from me. We talk when you are yourself again."

"_Diffindo._"

Harry only heard but never felt the spell. The next moment Malfoy was on him, pushing him towards the couch. Harry stumbled backwards until the couch hit the back of his knees and he toppled over, with Malfoy on top of him. Malfoy was sucking at Harry's neck, and now it hurt. Badly. Harry whimpered because of the pain, his head jerked away by instinct to make Malfoy stop. And Malfoy did. His mouth and teeth were smeared with blood, his eyes wild and so dark they looked dead. But he stopped.

"Slower," Harry whispered, "go slower. I can take it."

Malfoy licked his lips; his tongue reached for every last droplets of blood. He pressed his whole body against Harry. His mouth immediately went to the wound at Harry's neck again. He traced its edges, eagerly but more cautious this time. Every once in a while he sucked very lightly. With each swallow, his body relaxed more until he was lying loose and heavy atop of Harry. Finally he stopped sucking and buried his face at Harry's throat. Harry felt him breath, deeply and contently. The cut started to burn now that fresh air reached it. It didn't matter at all.

Harry moved his hands slowly down Malfoy's back until he reached his arse. He kneaded the firm muscles underneath the smooth cloth. Their bodies started moving. Harry's legs were tangled up in Malfoy's, with too much clothing but just enough friction. He was so hard, and the burn at the side of his neck made his arousal even sharper. He let his hands glide up Malfoy's back again, to take in the whole of his body. To feel him all over. They were frotting, cock against cock, and Harry carded his fingers lightly through Malfoy's hair. It was so incredibly soft. Harry thrust against Malfoy's leg, trying to get closer, to get at naked skin somehow. He could feel the sweet ache, when precome leaked from his cock. Malfoy sneaked one hot hand between them, and oh God, he shoved down Harry's pyjama bottoms. He untied the lacings of his trousers.

"Want you," Harry moaned, and Malfoy took the word from his mouth with a kiss. His lips were sticky and they tasted sickly sweet but Harry loved it.

The fire spit and crackled; the couch creaked beneath their weight. Malfoy's fingers were rough as they circled the head of Harry's cock and squeezed. Harry couldn't help but grunt out his need when Malfoy finally palmed both of their cocks. The movement was awkward, the angle wrong, their cocks were wedged in between bunched-up cotton, silk and the fine-spun wool of Malfoy's trousers. And yet Harry was already so close, he could do nothing but hold on to Malfoy and thrust, thrust fast into Malfoy's palm.

Behind Malfoy glittering dust was swirling in the air. "Draco," Harry whispered and he came, so hard. "Draco," testing the name, making it fit his mouth. His body arched off the couch in sheer pleasure. Malfoy moved against him, once, twice, his thighs started trembling. He came without a sound, his eyes shut, his head thrown back. Hot spurts of spunk landed on Harry's belly and chest.

The Black library with its thousands of books seemed to have shrunk. All that was important was here, in the few square feet of diamond-patterned floor reaching from the fireplace to the couch. The leather stuck to Harry's naked, sweat-slick back. Malfoy was getting too heavy for comfort, and he gently shoved him off to the side. Malfoy let him but his heart was still beating very fast. Harry felt him reach for his wand that had fallen to the floor.

He grabbed Malfoy's wrist. "Don't Obliviate me. You don't have to."

"I wasn't going to." Malfoy's voice was hoarse and tired. "But let me heal the wound."

Everything Harry had been taught in Auror training said to not trust Malfoy. His instinct was to disarm him with a wandless _Expelliarmus_.

Malfoy waited. He wasn't looking at Harry's face but at his neck, at the open cut. There were blood smears on his chin. Harry moved his head to the side, giving Malfoy full access. A smile appeared on Malfoy's lips. It looked lopsided because his mouth was swollen. There was just a hint of predator in the smile. Malfoy looked at Harry, and his eyes were grey again. He brought his mouth to the cut, licked it gently, from the outside in, as if he meant to close the edges with spit and blood. Harry relaxed instantly, it felt so good. Again he felt Malfoy lean down to pick up his wand, and he let him.

"Episkey."

Malfoy's magic washed over Harry's neck, and it hurt for one bright moment.

When Harry reached up touch the cut, it was gone. No scar, no loss of feeling, nothing but his own skin. If he hadn't been too weak to move, it all could have been a dream.

But Malfoy beside him on the couch was no dream. He smelled of sweat, of blood, faintly of cinnamon and the leather of the couch. Harry chuckled softly; it took all the energy he could muster.

"What?" Malfoy's voice was close to Harry's ear.

"You're not a vampire, Malfoy."

"And how would you know?" Malfoy put his hand on Harry's chest, and Harry pressed it against his heart. Malfoy's skin was hot and rough, and slick, too. Harry didn't think it was only their spunk. Malfoy's hand was bleeding.

"You wouldn't be alive. But you are. I can you hear your heartbeat now." It had slowed down a bit but was still going strong. Harry could feel the beat of Malfoy's heart thrum through his own body. He closed his eyes. He heard Malfoy ask about Blood-Replenishing potion and told him, the kitchen cabinet.

Malfoy got up, and for a moment Harry felt the odd cold again, on the side where he had lain. But not for the world could he stay awake to wait until Malfoy returned.

\- x -

I wake to winter sunlight falling on my face. Luckily, I remember not to open my eyes but move back quickly into the shadow behind Potter's body. He must have enlarged the couch during the night, because it's wide enough now to fit two adult men. There are dark red sofa cushions with oriental patterns. A cashmere blanket covers our bodies. I see my Oxfords at the side of the fireplace, my cloak is thrown over a chair. Potter is still half naked and fast asleep. I want nothing more than to nestle deeper underneath the blanket, closer to him.

But I can't. The sun will reach the whole couch in a few minutes. Even through my closed eyelids I can feel its heat. It will burn me up if my skin is exposed to it for too long.

I sit up, and Potter is immediately awake. His arm circles around my waist.

"Don't go." His voice is rough with sleep.

"The sun." I squirm in his hold. I must get away.

"It won't kill you, Malfoy."

Anger rises from my belly. He doesn't have a clue. "And what would you know about it, _Potter_?"

I didn't mean to sound so scathing, and Potter winces at my words. But he doesn't let go of me, instead he pulls me closer towards him. Towards where the sunlight is streaming in from the high windows.

I lay my hand on the pillow beside Harry's head. I have to force myself because the place is sun-drenched and already warmed from the light. It doesn't hurt right away but I feel the rhythm of my heart pick up pace. I am so tired and yet my heart won't stop racing.

"When has the blistering started?" Harry strokes my poor hand with his fingertips. I am dreading the pain but I let him continue.

"Beginning of November," I say. "It's reaching all the way up to my elbow now. Both arms." I don't tell him about the lesions on my shins, or about the raw blisters at the back of my legs.

He opens my cufflinks. The silver-encased diamonds throw sparks in the sunlight that reach all the way to Potter's eyes. Carefully he shoves my shirt sleeve all the way up to my elbow. The Dark Mark that has been part of me for twenty years is gone. My arm is a raw red mess. Potter gasps but he doesn't move away. Instead he brings his face closer and he – he places soft kisses on my arm.

"It must be an allergic reaction," he mutters. "You were exposed to some poison. A potion, perhaps. Or building materials. Your office –"

"It isn't." I wish it was different but I know the sun is burning away my skin. It is slowly killing me. "I slept with a vampire, a few months ago. He did this to me. He turned me."

Potter lies back on the pillow. His black hair is cut short but it still goes wherever it wants. Without his glasses he looks so young. His green eyes really are that spectacular. I see flecks of gold dancing within them.

"Jonathan," he says.

I must have misunderstood. "What?"

"You and Jonathan were together for a while. He was quite smitten with you." Potter's mouth curves into a smile. I have no idea what he is smiling about.

"You… know him?" The image of Potter and Jonathan, naked, pressed against a high glass window, a moonlit cemetery in the background, flashes through my mind. It is impossible.

"One-night stand. Jonathan is a much better friend than a lover." Potter takes my arm and moves it underneath the blanket, away from the sun. "He would never turn you. He's not interested in creating more vampires. I am not even sure he can still do it. Hermione says there's no record of a wizard or witch being turned in the last 700 years. She says it takes a vampire with strong magic to turn a magical being. And wizarding vampires lose their magic, the older they get."

"He – he bit you." The pain in my arm recedes. My heart is still racing but I concentrate on Potter. Nothing of what he says makes sense.

"Yes." Again the mysterious smile. "It's… it's quite something, isn't it?" He has the audacity to sound shy. As if I had not slashed his neck and drunk his blood. As if I had not come all over him.

It is all too much. I let myself collapse on Potter. My head finds its place in the crook of his neck. My eyes hurt in the brightness of the day. I nestle deeper against Potter, into the shadows. "I am… sick," I whisper. "Just sick." I hear Scorpius' voice somewhere in the distance, in another room. The smell of fresh coffee drifts into the library.

"Let me take you to St. Mungo's, Draco. After breakfast." Potter is close and so warm. He gently cradles my left arm.

I cannot speak, but I nod. Relief floods me. It's like golden honey in my veins. I am a wizard. I am a man. I am alive. Potter's breath is steady beside me. I reach out to him with my frantically beating heart. I hear his promise. We, his heart answers, we will be all right.

\- _fin_ \- 

* * *

**End Notes:** Draco is suffering from porphyria. The symptoms of porphyria have been likened to some signs of vampirism; those similarities are the premise of the story. The cause of porphyria is genetic. In this story it is triggered by Draco's exposure to mercury in the Dark Mark removal potion he was experimenting with. Jonathan Ruthven's vampire bite was wholly coincidental and had nothing to do with Draco's ordeal. The story title is taken from Röhl, Warren &amp; Hunt, _Purple Secret: __Genes, 'Madness' And The Royal Houses Of Europe_ (1999).


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